


Angels Don't Get the Flu

by fleurofthecourt



Series: Angels Don't Get Sick [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate universe - canon divergent, Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Dean Winchester Takes Care of Castiel, Depression, Fluff and Angst, Human Castiel, Influenza, M/M, Post-Casifer, Post-Season/Series 11, Sick Castiel, Sick Dean Winchester, Sick Sam Winchester, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 20:26:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7588843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurofthecourt/pseuds/fleurofthecourt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And neither do Sam and Dean...and definitely not around Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angels Don't Get the Flu

**Author's Note:**

> Set in a canon divergent version of s11 in which, after expelling Lucifer, Sam and Dean work on getting Cas some help with his mental health issues. 
> 
> Also Cas is human.

The bunker’s radiator hisses violently overhead as Dean stumbles into the kitchen half awake, hoping he’s not going to find Cas in it. 

He's been waiting, his arm stretched over the empty space at his side, for Cas to come back to bed for long enough to realize Cas had had other plans. 

And, he had hoped, not with Sam’s laptop. 

So when the bright illumination from the Youtube clip Cas is playing makes his eyes start to water, he sighs, “What are you doing up, Cas? We’ve talked about this.” 

Cas watches as a kitten bats tinsel and gift wrap across a wood floor before turning to Dean. “I can’t sleep.”

“Cas,” Dean scrubs at his face and his throat constricts. He isn’t any good at this. He wants to be, for Cas’ sake. But he’s not sure he has it in him. “You’ve got to try something else. Counting sheep. That weird stretching nonsense. Writing down all your thoughts. Dr. Owens had some ideas, didn’t she?” 

“Yes. I've tried them. None of them are alleviating the pain in my throat, so they've been ineffective,” Cas says as he rubs at it, his voice rough. He turns back to the laptop and clicks on the next video. 

Dean scrubs at his temple. Because, of frigging course. “Your throat hurts?” 

Cas nods as several piglets chase a soccer ball under a Christmas tree. “I believe I’m ill.” 

“And you didn’t say anything because....?” Dean asks as he places his hand against Cas’ forehead, trying to tamp down his concern.

“It seems to be a minor illness. I didn't want to worry you unduly.” 

And, sure, it probably is just a cold, or, at worst, the flu. But after the whole thing with Amara and Lucifer? Well, his general concern about Cas’ well-being has ratcheted up about ten notches. 

(It has to -- to compensate for Cas’ own lack of concern.)

Neither the heat coming from Cas’ forehead nor Cas’ intense focus on the laptop’s screen do anything to quell his anxiety. 

Fever? 

Check. 

Dissociation? 

Certainly a possibility. 

They’re both problems... 

“Okay. Tylenol, Benadryl, Bed. Doctor’s orders,” Dean says as he pulls the drugs down from the shelf. 

“You're not a doctor,” Cas says, frowning distractedly at the screen. 

Dean just sighs before setting a glass of water next to Cas as he presses the laptop closed. “Next couple of days, I'm yours. Dean Winchester, MD. Come on.” 

XXX 

With the medicine in his system, Cas settles asleep easily enough. 

Dean, however, is restless. 

He knows how much Cas has already been through, and though he knows a cold’s a minor thing, you know, comparatively. He just. He feels bad. Bad enough that he finds himself driving to the nearest big box store in the middle of the night. 

Because Cas has probably never had to deal with a cold and, well, he doesn't know how to help Cas with a lot of things. 

Existential crises? Depression? PTSD? 

Not really his thing -- though, God help him, he’s trying. 

But a cold?

A cold he can handle. 

Hell, he can even handle the flu. 

Those are demons he can battle.

That's why he's throwing cough medicine, cough drops, tissues, ingredients for tomato rice and chicken noodle, and more fluids than Cas is likely to want or need in a shopping cart at going on 5 a.m. 

The Christmas decorations that are somehow also making making their way into his cart though? Those he can't as easily explain.

It starts out with him reasoning that candy canes and peppermint hot chocolate ought to be soothing for a sore throat. 

It continues when he gets to the trees, and doesn’t stop grabbing ornaments, placing as much blame as he can on Cas’ weird obsession with those damn cutesy animal videos -- he’s just seen way too many zoo animals celebrating Christmas. Something had to rub off.

Then as he carefully lays three stockings on top of a bag of rice, he thinks, maybe, it's because, with Sam and Cas both around and Christmas only a few days out, that, well, why not? 

They're a family, aren't they? 

Family ought to celebrate Christmas, right?

That's what he says, anyway, as Sam stares, with a bemused expression, as he lugs an artificial, pre-lit tree into the library. 

“Yeah, might make Cas feel better,” Sam says as he helps Dean pull the tree to standing. “You, uh, you might want to go tell him you didn't go AWOL because he's got the flu.” 

Dean frowns as the tree tips slightly to the left. “He was worried?” 

“Sort of? He said he hoped you would be back when he was feeling better,” Sam says as he helps pull the tree to standing, then at Dean’s slightly wounded expression, he adds, “coughing fit woke him up, you and the car were gone, and he's got a fever of 101.”

And, okay, Dean can't really blame Cas for jumping to conclusions. It's not like they have the best history with the whole staying thing. 

And Cas isn't really at the top of his game. In general, really. 

And knowing that, knowing that depression, as Cas once tried to explain it, plants dark vines that grow around his rational thoughts and twists them, he should know better than to run off when there's signs of trouble -- at least, not without any explanation. 

Not that he's about to admit that to Sam.

“Knew that thermometer would come in handy.” 

And it kind of stings that he doesn't have any leeway for an illogical middle of the night shopping spree. 

So he makes a show of putting his home remedies on the table. “And, look, I'm an awesome boyfriend that plans on making some really awesome homemade soup.” 

“Yeah, well, you better go tell Cas that.” 

“Tell me what?” Cas’ voice drifts in from the doorway. It's much rougher than it was before. And now, with the lights on, Dean sees that his cheeks are flushed red and his hair is slightly damp. He shivers slightly, despite the blanket he has wrapped around him. 

He looks miserable. 

“Soup’s on, or will be, so sit,” Dean says as he drags a chair back from the table and pushes tissues and cough drops at him.

“There was a newspaper on the nightstand, listing strange cattle deaths near Lima; I thought you'd left,” Cas says as he crumples into the chair, dazedly glancing at the evidence that Dean had done something else entirely. “I'm glad you didn't.” 

He also notices, quickly, that Dean got more than just groceries. “You bought a Christmas tree?” 

“Yeah, uh,” Dean’s hand cranes behind his neck because now that Sam and Cas are both kind of staring at him, he feels like maybe this was a bad idea. “Thought we could give this whole Christmas thing a shot. Got the whole bunker to decorate, and, uh, enough of us to do the whole gift thing.” 

While neither of them shoots him down -- Cas just kind of stares at the geometric pattern on the tissue box as Sam nods with a crease in his brow -- he was really hoping for at least a little enthusiasm. 

“Anyway, making soup. You kids think about it.” 

XXX 

As Dean is ladling soup into a third bowl (because he and Sam don't need to be sick to enjoy awesome food), Cas treads into the kitchen and drops into the far chair. 

“How you doing?” Dean asks as he sets the soup in front of him. “Think you can handle a grilled cheese?”

Cas squints at the bowl. Then, ignoring the question he advises, “You should find Sam. I believe he’s ill as well.” 

Dean shuts his eyes and rolls them. 

Because, of frigging course. 

Cas is terrible at being taken care of because he often doesn't say anything about his problems. 

Sam is terrible because he doesn't want anyone to help him with his, if he does let on. 

He, of course, can be terrible for both reasons. 

But that's for Sam and Cas to handle. 

And, as if reading these very thoughts, Cas pokes his spoon towards Dean and states gravely,“And you're likely to be so as well.” 

He dips the spoon into his soup and mumbles, “I believe the school teacher from the shifter case is to blame.” 

“Damn germy children. Alright. I’ll handle Sammy. You eat.” 

XXX 

Sam isn't exactly hiding, as Dean finds him in the library, almost exactly where he left him.

However, instead of poring over books or looking for a new case, he's awkwardly stooped over the middle of the Christmas tree, twining silver tinsel through the branches, humming God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman. 

Dean almost feels bad interrupting. Almost. 

At his approach, Sam loses his grip on the end of the strand, and it flutters to the floor. “Cas? Can you grab that?” 

Dean may not have noticed, if Cas hadn't said anything, but Sam’s voice is definitely a little off. 

“Not Cas,” Dean says and Sam turns around slowly, briefly pinching his eyes closed in annoyance, clearly aware that Cas has ratted him out. 

And before he has a chance to duck away, Dean brushes his bangs back with his palm. “Not as warm as Cas. But, still definitely got a fever.” 

“Dean,” Sam’s voice cracks with exasperation as he shakes him off, “I don't need you to mother hen me. Go do it to Cas. He’ll let you.”

“Sam...” It's concern and warning all wrapped in one syllable. 

But Sam rolls his eyes. “Look, I took medicine this morning. Gave some to Cas too. I’m doing fine taking care of myself. But, if it'll make you feel better, I'll come eat your soup, okay, Mom.” 

And, really, that's about as much as Dean could hope for. 

“Drink that stupid herbal tea crap I got too. Keep hydrated.” 

“If it's ‘crap,’ why did you buy it?” 

“Because I live with tea drinking weirdos.” 

“That are decorating a tree for you ...even though they're sick.” 

“Yeah, think I might be vetoing that. You two need to get some rest,” Dean says before taking in in the half finished tree and quickly glancing away, “whole Christmas thing was stupid anyway.”

“No,” Cas’ voice, though crackly, is full of firm resolution as he appears in the doorway holding three plates with what appear to be grilled cheese. “Christmas is in three days. You want to celebrate as a family. So we will. Sick or not.”

He bites into his sandwich with a thoughtful expression. “I've never celebrated Christmas on Earth. I look forward to it.” 

As Cas continues to chew, he and Sam exchange a few looks (and exasperated eye rolls on Sam’s part) that settle it. The other angels can't have done the human thing justice. 

So, for better or for worse, for all of their sakes, the Winchesters are doing Christmas.

**Author's Note:**

> All of you readers rock. Thanks for reading!


End file.
